


Memories of Rivendell

by whimsicalmuse



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-23
Updated: 2004-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7728688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalmuse/pseuds/whimsicalmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pippin remembers their stay in the Last Homely House.  (M/P)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of Rivendell

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Shirasade: this story was originally archived at the [Monaboyd.net Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Monaboyd.net), which was closed in September 2014 due to software issues and a lack of new submissions for several years. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2014. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Monaboyd.net Archive collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Monaboyd_Archive/profile).

Making love to Merry-mine was always a life altering experience, from my tweens to our dying days, albeit a bit predictable. Though it would always happen the same way, in Rivendell, it was better. In Rivendell, the moonlight poured in the airy quarters, and would settle on his alabaster skin like diamond dust, and he would glow. In Rivendell, his golden strands would fade to silver, and when he lie on the silken sheets, the curls would fan out, and remind me of the fields of wheat we would run through as children back in the Shire. In Rivendell, I would pull him in my arms, and our fingers would just touch one another, and I swore I could just feel the life, the love, flowing between us, though our skin never connected. In Rivendell, we would dance joined as one, in the cool night air, and the whisper breeze would disturb the thin curtains with a sigh to match our own.

In the last Homely house we would find each other, some giddy nights, though the elves boarded us in separate rooms. Our cheeks would be red as the first harvest’s apples, and his kisses would taste like sweet wine and long bottom leaf, while he whispered silly promises and leers at his Ïmpling. When he would pull me in into the candlelit room, I would watch our shadows as we lay on the bed, kissing, tasting, caressing one another, until dawn would peep over the mountains and into the room. In the early sunlight, we would laugh, and play, as our pulses slowed, and the sweat would cool on our skin.

Time passes different for the elves, and it was the same for us. It seemed a thousand nights passed though it may have only been one month, yet even it if was a thousand nights, it would never have been enough for us. Some nights, not enough in my mind, we would join together, he and I, to reaffirm, and re-forge our love, and soothe our wounded faith, which had been so shaken by the threat of losing Frodo, and watching Sam grieve a man not yet dead. Mostly, though perhaps it was selfish of us, we would join to calm the fears we had of losing one another to this quest in body, and spirit. We knew then, perhaps, the changes we would go through, the war that would make my Merry less so, and his Pipsqueak, less an imp and more the man forced into shoes too big for his feet.

It was during those nights that we would reach a fevered pitch, biting, clinging, marking one another, our breath coming out in strained gasps, slicing the calm silence in the room. Though I usually would be the one to lead, during those nights, he would come undone, tearing at gauze shirts, until pearl buttons fell like raindrops on the floor carelessly. Long fingers, which normally were so graceful, and nimble, would snatch at breeches, while his full lips would bruise, bite, devour mine, in a flurry of two bodies in motion. When he would tear into me I would cry out, cry with him, through the burning haze would seek him, pull him closer to me, so that I might feel the strum of his heartbeat with every thrust, every press of his hips to mine, until bone would crush bone, and we truly felt as two hearts, one soul.

“Mine.” He would choke out, with a strangled sob, and when I would open my mouth to respond, the salt of his tears would dry my tongue and almost chase away my reply.

“Yours.” I would hiss, through gritted teeth, and my eyes would be lost in his own, which would seem to mimic a storm rolling in from the sea. He would bury his face on my neck, heart racing, and his pace would quicken at a dizzying rate, while one hand would come between us to find my aching need.

“Mine.” I would declare, with a growl, and an upward thrust, and with a hitch, he would be torn apart, only to be rebuilt in the aftermath of his release.

“Yours.” He would whisper, on the shell of my ear, as he trembled, and I would come falling down after him, my very blood thrumming with the joy of being alive.

And when we were spent, and our bodies could move no more, we would lie with one another, limbs, breath, and heartbeat tangled in one another, until sleep would claim us, and we would dream our dreams as one. The new day would be born, filled with sunlight, and promises for a fresh hope, and we would go to face the elves, and see our friends, and ready for the quest. But when we left, we vowed we would never forget, how much better we were in Rivendell. Like a brand, we never did, the memory stayed alive and fresh. And of my thoughts, where those sweet days, as I took my dying breath.


End file.
